


laws of motion

by ohmygodwhy



Series: first rule of earth kingdom fight club... [10]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Family Dinners, Gen, Late Night Conversations, zhao? a bitch even in death, zuko in his room at night: im processing a Thought. maybe a feeling as well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-23 07:21:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23407843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmygodwhy/pseuds/ohmygodwhy
Summary: “You’ve always been so impatient. Give yourself some time.”“It’s been weeks,” it comes out sounding more desperate than he meant, and he hates it.Azula, in a rare show of mercy, doesn’t comment on it. “Then give it more time, stupid. You’ll readjust. What else can you do?”(Zuko avoids his sister on the ride home from Ba Sing Se. It's harder to avoid her once they get there.)
Relationships: Azula & Zuko (Avatar)
Series: first rule of earth kingdom fight club... [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1280843
Comments: 93
Kudos: 1464





	laws of motion

**Author's Note:**

> how about that covid 19 huh????? we are in quarantine babey, i haven't left my house in a week and for some reason [college redacted] is still..........happening. moved to online classes dorms shut down and yet. no housing refund :/ but anyway, inspiration Finally struck i have been so unmotivated in every aspect of my life so this is a win for me. hope youre all safe and doing ok bc honestly.....the State Of Things.

He avoids his sister on the ship ride home from Ba Sing Se. 

It’s easy enough—mostly because he’s had years of practice avoiding people on a ship three times smaller than this one, and Azula doesn’t seem to care enough to actively seek him out. She also, lucky for him, would never stoop as low as to enter the kitchen herself. He scares the cook half to death, the first time he slips in and finds him scrubbing some pots; the poor bastard’s hands shake when he asks if dinner wasn’t to his liking, and if there is anything—anything at all, your highness—he could make for him instead. Zuko wonders what he did to land himself a job personally cooking for the princess. He hopes he has enough sense to book it somewhere far away when they land.

“No,” he says, and then, when the cook’s face falls horribly, he panics and says, “I mean, I didn’t—I skipped dinner. So. I got hungry, and was just gonna—grab something. If that’s okay?”

The poor cook looks scandalized at the question—or maybe the fact that he’s asking it?—and does this thing where he shakes his head and tries to bow at the same time. “Of course you don't have to _ask,_ your highness, I would be happy to prepare you something—you need only have sent for me.”

Zuko doesn’t know why the formal way he’s being addressed makes him uncomfortable, but it does. It’s not as if nobody called him your highness on his ship, but nobody ever sounded so… vaguely scared when they did. It used to piss him off to no end, the lack of respect some of them had, but he got used to it. None of their hands had ever shook when they talked to him—then again, none of them had ever had to deal with Azula directly. Poor fuckers wouldn’t have stood a chance.

“I didn’t think anyone would still be here,” he admits, oddly embarrassed at the wide-eyed look he gets; the cook’s eyes dart back and forth between each of Zuko’s eyes, like he can’t decide whether to look at the scar or ignore it. “I was just gonna see what was leftover.”

“I’m afraid the crew already took the scrapes,” the guy really does sound sorry about it. Zuko suddenly feels stupid, because obviously the crew gets the leftovers. 

“Oh,” he says, “Okay. I can just—wait for breakfast, then.”

He turns to leave, ignoring the somehow even more fucking scandalized look on the cook’s face.

“Your highness, I would be happy to make you something.”

Zuko mostly wants this incredibly awkward interaction to be over. He, unfortunately, is also very hungry.

“I wouldn’t want to give you any extra work--I’m sure you have enough to do already.”

The cook shakes his head, already turning to work. “It would be my honor, your majesty. Oh!” Zuko startles at the sudden exclamation, “We have some leftover batter from the hotcakes served this morning--if that’s sufficient for you.”

Zuko skipped breakfast, too, mostly because he slept too late. Because he had been up late. Because he couldn’t get to sleep. It’s an annoying cycle, now that he has no set schedule—he doesn’t have to get up for work anymore, and nobody comes to wake him. 

“Uh, sure, that’s fine,” he says, and the cook seems to deflate in relief. Spirits, the poor fucker needs a new job. “Do you need any help? So, y’know, we’ll be done faster, and you can get to bed sooner.”

The cook pauses, looking for all the world like he doesn’t know which answer will make Zuko angry, so Zuko decides to take the silence as a yes. 

“Do you want me to mix or flip?” he asks; there were a few months, back in the first year of his banishment, where Zuko decided he wanted to know how to cook—at least the basics, he had argued, since he was learning the basics of every other job on the ship. He was not very good at it, what with his peripheral vision being shot to shit and the way his left arm would start shaking sometimes, but Cook had been surprisingly patient with him. Hotcakes were a common one, because there were only a few, relatively easy to follow steps. He’d been a little too ambitious with the spatula the first time he tried it; there had been a dried stain of hotcake batter on the kitchen ceiling right up until the ship blew up. The memory makes something in his chest ache.

The cook blinks a few times, and says, “Mixing is fine, your highness.” 

He pulls the bowl of batter from a cupboard, and hands Zuko a whisk along with it. As soon as Zuko takes it, the cook turns sharply to fiddle with the stove. The batter is already pretty smooth, just settled from sitting in a cupboard all day, so it doesn’t take much. He stirs in silence for a few minutes, and passes it off when the cook deems the stove hot enough. 

The cook makes a pleased sort of hum. “You’ve made hotcakes before, then, your majesty?”

He finally sounds like he isn’t a second away from fainting where he stands—politely curious, maybe. 

Zuko shrugs, oddly self-conscious, and leans against the counter while the cook pours the batter onto the griddle he put on the stove. “A few times. My ship was… small. And there wasn’t much else to do but learn how to do shit--uh, things.” 

He is extremely aware that, a week ago, he was as good as dead to everyone on this ship—an exile and traitor to his nation, officially. He doesn’t know how they must feel, suddenly having to treat him like royalty again when he was originally meant to be one of the people in the cell nobody talks about. He doesn’t know how _he_ feels about it. 

Talking about his exile might not be the best strategy to inspire respect, or whatever. Cussing in front of the crew definitely is not. He finds he doesn’t much care.

Besides, the cook seems to smile a bit at his slip up. “There aren’t many royals who would choose to learn… lesser tasks, like that.”

He doesn’t sound judgmental, really--he can already imagine how Azula would laugh if she found out. But this isn’t Azula--this isn’t anyone he knows, and so there’s nothing to lose here.

“Well,” Zuko says, watching the cook flip one of the hotcakes with a grace Zuko’s never managed to capture, “I wasn’t exactly feeling very royal. And it helped to pass the time.”

The cook hums thoughtfully, seeming much less anxious than he did when Zuko first walked in. “If you don’t mind me asking, my prince,” he looks at Zuko as if to ask permission, and Zuko shrugs, “Do you know much about engines?”

Whatever Zuko thought the man was going to ask, it wasn’t that. He blinks. “Um. I mean, I’m not an expert. But I know the basics.”

The cook stacks the hotcakes onto a plate, one on top of the other, and slides it down the counter. He hands him a fork, too, holding it like an offering, and says, “Thank the spirits. Jing’s been having engine problems, but the-the princess… got rid of the head mechanic.” Zuko feels a twinge of sympathy for whatever “got rid of” means. “He isn’t sure how to fix it, and the princess…” 

_Won’t be happy about that,_ Zuko fills in. He wouldn’t wanna be the poor bastard to tell her that the ship is fucked up and it might, sort of, be her fault. 

“Okay,” Zuko says quietly, “I don’t know if I’ll be any help, really. But I could look at it, if you want.”

Spirits, the guy looks like he might cry. “Yes,” he says, bowing, “Thank you, your highness, that would be much appreciated.”

Zuko takes a look at it the next day, a young boy with greasy hands leading him to the engine room. It’s all very hush-hush, the crew’s anxiety kind of making him anxious, too—but he’s the prince, he rationalizes, it’s not like he’s doing anything wrong. If he wants to look in the engine room, who’s gonna stop him? So he looks at the damn engine--and, thank fuck, it’s nothing awful. Same sort of leak Arai used to coach him through.

Zuko makes quick work of it. The young boy thanks him gratefully, and it makes him feel odd. 

“Don’t mention it,” he says. He decides he should probably go to dinner tonight, even if his sister and her friends will be there, if only to replace the foreign discomfort with a discomfort he knows well enough for it to be a relief. 

He is home, and nothing gets any easier. It’s harder to ignore Azula, even though the palace is much bigger than the ship was. Father doesn’t call on him for three days, one for each year he’s been gone.

When he does finally summon him, Zuko kneeling before the throne and trying not to think about the last time he kneeled before his father, it’s nothing like he expected. He doesn’t know what he expected, to be honest—back at the beginning, he used to think about his father welcoming him home with pride and joy, maybe taking him in arms like Uncle does—did—sometimes. Stupid, childish dreams that seem so stupid now. 

His father does welcome him home, but it is formal and distant and not cold, really, but not warm.

“I’m proud of you,” he says, something Zuko has always wanted to hear, “I’m proud of you,” even as he circles him like a vulture, like the sea birds flying above their raft as his uncle slowly starved beside him, “I see how your travels have changed you.”

Zuko wants to ask: how have they changed me? What difference in me do you see, what could you see that would make you proud? What do you know about it—what could you possibly know?

But if there is one thing he has learned from his father, it’s when to hold his fucking tongue. He bites down hard, and doesn’t say a word. 

Later, their father calls them to dinner—he and Azula and not Uncle, because Uncle is in a cell right now. Zuko helped put him there. 

Dinner is... odd. Strange. Tense. He’s thought about it at sea, so many times—coming home and eating in the dining hall as he’s done a hundred times. In these daydreams, he realizes, his mother and uncle have always been there. His mother is gone and his uncle is in a cell that Zuko helped put him in. Stupid, he thinks, as his father glances at him from across the table. His gaze is as heavy as Zuko remembers. 

“Tell me, Zuko,” he says, “About some of your travels.”

Zuko doesn’t startle, but it’s a close fucking thing. He’s lucky his gripping his chopsticks so tight, or he probably would have dropped them. 

He flounders for a moment, as he always does in front of his father. “I’m afraid there’s not much to tell,” he settles on. 

“Three years at sea,” and his father sounds amused, “and months running through the earth kingdom. I’m sure you have something to share.”

Well, Zuko thinks, oddly calm even as his heart races, he can’t tell him about all the times he Almost caught the Avatar, or about his little Blue Spirit stint, or about getting the shit kicked out of him by a bunch of earthbenders for practice. He can’t tell him about the safe house, or the children begging on the street, or the man’s burn he helped treat. Wouldn’t dare to even think about how it made him—how it made him doubt. How it made him feel. Tea shop job is out of the question, too—he isn’t sure if he heard about it from Azula or not, but he doesn’t want to test his father’s sense of humor. And that definitely means he can’t regale them with stories of his crew getting him drunk and subsequently destroying him at Ships and Robbers.

“Um,” he says eloquently, “Well. My ship got blown up.” Is what his brain settles on. Great.

His father raises an eyebrow; if he’s caught off guard, he doesn’t show it. “Blown up,” he repeats.

Zuko nods, the movement stiff, “With me inside it. By pirates. Well, pirates who were hired by Zhao,” and then, because he remembers the fucker is dead now, “Agni rest his soul.”

Father’s eyebrows get higher and higher as Zuko goes; he can’t, for the life of him, tell whether it’s amusement or disgust. He doesn’t dare look at Azula’s face. 

“Zhao,” Father says the man’s voice with that particular type of distaste he has for people that have disappointed him; Zuko’s name has been said that way often, “Why exactly would he hire... pirates... to blow you up.”

Zuko is glad he has enough control of his mouth to stop from saying _because he found out I was the Blue Spirit and stole the Avatar from him._

“Well,” he starts. Azula, surprisingly, interrupts him.

“He was obviously plotting against the throne from the beginning,” she says, airy and disinterested, “It’s no wonder the Siege of the North was a failure—Admiral Zhao had eyes a little too big for his stomach. Trying to assassinate royalty,” as if she wasn’t hunting Zuko down like a misbehaving dog a month ago, “as though he had the right. I’m impressed you survived.”

That last sentence is aimed at him; when he glances in Azula’s direction, her gaze is intense and pointed—agree with me, it says, so obvious he can read it, I’m saving your ass from the hole you dug for yourself. 

He clears his throat, “I was... very injured. But I couldn’t let treason be the end of me.” The word feels odd rolling off his tongue. Mostly because it’s been a word people have just recently stopped throwing at him.

His father hums, but he’s been nodding along to Azula’s little speech; she has always had a way, Zuko knows, of speaking their father's language in a way Zuko could never quite get the hang of. 

“He got what he deserved, it seems,” Father decides. He looks at Zuko, then, and there is something that could be a glimmer of pride in his eyes. It makes Zuko’s stomach do this weird little twist. 

He wonders, for a moment: if Zuko had exploded along with his ship, would his father say the same thing about him? A banished prince going up in flames, far away from home—would Father cut his stake and hum and say he got what he deserved? 

Zuko pushes down the suicidal urge to ask. He pushes down the relief Azula’s save had given him, and hopes instead that she doesn’t expect too much in return—she always does, and right now he doesn’t have much to give.

Father doesn’t ask after anymore of Zuko’s “travels,” instead talking about a meeting he had with some important general. He has no problem with this. The meal is surprisingly hard to keep down; he finishes his plate, because the last thing he wants to seem is ungrateful, but the food settles uncomfortably in his stomach. 

The feeling doesn’t go away. The odd, annoying sense of being out of place.

His bed is too soft. The food is too rich. The servants are too... servanty. They want to tie his robes and put his shoes on and do his hair for him—or they expect him to want that. He wonders if his aversion to it makes things easier or more difficult for them; he thinks that they wouldn’t tell him the truth if he asked, so he doesn’t. 

Nothing is the way he remembers it. Nothing fits rights—he doesn’t fit right. He is different and changed and he hates it. This isn’t what he spent three years trying to get back; this isn’t what it’s supposed to be like.

He almost gets lost on his way to the garden. Lost. In the place he grew up. That’s the last fucking straw, apparently, because he suddenly feels like he’s either gonna cry or punch something. Azula is in the courtyard when he gets there, which just doubles the feeling. 

“Zuzu,” she says, immediately picking up on his... mood, “What’s got you all worked up?”

Because he is at the end of his fucking rope and fed up with not feeling like he’s home even though he finally is, he admits, “I almost got fucking lost on the way here.”

“Don’t feel bad,” Azula says, mock sympathetic, “The palace halls are rather long and confusing; it takes new servants weeks to learn their way around.”

“This isn’t _funny_ ,” Zuko snaps, even thought it only makes his sister more amused, “I spent thirteen years walking from my room to this stupid tree, and I’m barely gone for three and just—fuckin’ forget how?”

“Zuko,” his sister starts, but Zuko doesn’t wanna hear whatever mocking shit she’s gonna say.

“And do you know how—weird it is? To have someone put your shoes on for you? Like I can’t do it myself? I’m not five! I don’t need to be tucked into bed, too!”

“That’s what servants are here for.”

“So? It’s weird! But it shouldn’t be weird, because I’m the prince, but it still is. Everything is so—off. I hate it.”

Azula, shockingly, is silent for a few moments, while Zuko catches his breath, feeling remarkably like a child who just threw a temper tantrum. Fucking ridiculous. 

“Are you done?” Azula asks, even though it’s pretty fucking clear that he is.

He huffs, and sits down hard in the grass next to her. “Yeah.”

She hums, smooths out her robe. “It’s not surprising that you’re having trouble adjusting. I imagine living on whatever little hovel you called a ship was quite different from living in a palace,” she ignores the offended noise he makes, even though he can’t really argue with her about the state of his ship, “And I don’t imagine you had anyone dressing you when you were posing as a refugee.”

There’s a pause, where she gives him a look like she’s expecting him to say something. When he doesn’t, she rolls her eyes and continues, “You’ve always been so impatient. Give yourself some time.”

“It’s been weeks,” it comes out sounding more desperate than he meant, and he hates it. 

Azula, in a rare show of mercy, doesn’t comment on it. “Then give it more time, stupid. You’ll readjust. What else can you do?” 

Nothing, unless he wants to irritate himself to death. He’s well on his way to that already. 

He sighs, leaning back against the tree he spent years climbing up and down. “Yeah, I know. It’s just annoying. I just want things to be normal again.”

Azula scoffs, “Don’t be a child. You can’t go back to the way things were three years ago; the world didn’t stop moving just because you weren’t here. Things were just fine with you gone.”

That stings a little, but he crosses his arms and frowns instead of letting it show. “I’m not dumb, I know that. But it feels like... like I changed too much. And now I don’t fit right.”

It’s uncomfortable, telling Azula how he feels and expecting something decent to come out of it, knowing damn well she’ll throw it back in his face later. At this point he thinks he just doesn’t care—he trusted her when she said he could come home, and here he is. Uncle is in prison and Mom’s been gone for years. What does he have to lose, anymore, other than shit he’s already had experience losing? 

“You’re so dramatic,” Azula scolds. “I just said to give it time.”

Zuko closes his eyes. “What if time doesn’t help.”

Azula is quiet for a moment, “Then I guess you’ll just have to fuckin’ deal with it.”

The curse sounds awkward in her mouth, and it startles half a laugh out of him.

He opens his eyes to see half a smirk on her face. 

“It’ll be fine,” he says, mainly just to say it out loud, “I’m home. This is where I should be.”

I made the right choice, he doesn’t say, because he doesn’t know if he could say it. Could never let Azula hear him doubt like that. 

Azula looks like she wants to laugh at him, maybe say something scathing. She rolls her eyes, instead, and says, “Obviously. I brought you home, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” he says, because she did. She’s the reason he’s here at all, and not dead somewhere in the catacombs under Ba Sing Se. “Yeah. You did.”

I made the right choice, he thinks again. He ignores the voice in his head calling him a coward.

Weeks pass, and then months, and all time does is give him more space to think. To process. To… to be angry and then feel guilty and then angry again. He hasn’t had this much _space_ for his thoughts in years. He’s had plenty of room for anger, not much for guilt, but never this much space and time to think about shit--he doesn’t like it. Doesn’t dislike it, but doesn’t like it either.

Things seem clearer, in retrospect, once you’re away and not living through it anymore. His father never meant for him to come home when he sent him away, he realizes one night, staring at the candle next to his bed. He thinks he’s known that for a long time, but he’s never let himself acknowledge it. Zuko wasted years chasing a ghost he knew deep down he would never be able to find, because he did not want to accept the fact that his father didn’t expect him to. 

He wonders vaguely, what he would have done if the Avatar hadn’t miraculously returned when he did. Would he have ever given up? Would he have burnt himself out, looking and looking? Would Uncle have gotten sick of it and went back home, if the mess at the North Pole never happened? Where would he have gone, once he had no other choice but to accept that he would never find the Avatar? The Earth Kingdom, probably. He dares, for a moment, to think: would Uncle have come with him?

Uncle is wasting away in a cell that Zuko helped put him in. Loads of good staying with Zuko did him. 

It burns, to know that his father does not love him. Hurts, maybe. He’s known, in his bones—in the ear that barely works and the eye that will never open all the way again—for long enough that it feels a bit anticlimactic. But maybe it still hurts.

So, these are the facts: his father does not love him; he’s happy for his return only because he thinks Zuko killed the Avatar. The Avatar is probably alive—an invasion is coming, even if he isn’t. The world has gone to shit and it is his nation’s fault. Ba Sing Se has fallen, there are children begging in the streets of the Earth Kingdom and shelters who even help people like him and there are people who are kind where they shouldn’t be. Uncle is in a cell, and Zuko helped put him there. Zuko can’t stay here--not when he _knows._ He has experience being a traitor to his nation, so it won’t be that bad. The war is wrong, and his father is wrong, and he was wrong to hurt him and send him away and Zuko has been so stupid and blind because of course he has—and he can’t stay blind anymore or his father will burn the world to the ground so he can rule whatever ashes are left.

He can’t stay here. He’s never been patient a day in his fucking life, and he can’t stay here.

He’s never been very good at planning ahead, either, but this time he knows he needs to. He needs to make the right choice this time. 

Azula, somehow, catches on before he’s even finalized his plan, because of course she does—she comes to his room the night before the eclipse and says: “You’re going to do something tomorrow, aren’t you.”

It isn’t a question. And Zuko’s always been a shit liar.

Still, he tries for nonchalant. “There’s gonna be an enemy invasion tomorrow; everyone will be doing something.” 

She scoffs, “That’s not what I mean.”

“What do you mean, then?”

Azula looks at him pointedly for a moment; when all he does is stare pointedly back, she scoffs again, harder, like this whole thing is a waste of time even though she’s the one who came to his room. “You’ve been—different, since you came home. You said it yourself. You’re different.”

“You said it _yourself-_ -I’ve been away for three years. You’re different, too.” 

“I’m not a traitor,” she spits, “I’m not an enemy of my nation.”

“Neither am I,” he says slowly, clenching his fingers into fists so his hands don’t shake; Azula has always scared him, just a bit. He made her stumble, but he didn’t make her fall. 

“By this time tomorrow,” she says, “You will be.”

He finds that he has nothing to say to that. He’s always been a shit liar. 

He sighs, deep and suddenly exhausted, “I can’t stay here, Azula.”

It’s the most open thing he’s handed his sister since they were children; he’s learned to keep his weaknesses, his secrets close to his chest—she was never kind to them. Maybe that’s what makes her eyes widen for a moment, like she expected to be able to call him out on his shit lying and win... whatever this is. 

“You just got home,” her voice is stone, “I brought you home—you wouldn’t be here if not for me. And you think you can just leave again?”

“Yes.”

“Fucking ungrateful,” and he flinches back a little bit, because Azula is always too poised, too perfect to cuss like that—only ever does it to make fun of him. “That’s your problem—you’re always so ungrateful. I brought you home; I gave you _everything_.”

If he didn’t know better, he thinks her voice might have wobbled at the end. “That was your choice; you could’ve just killed me there and been done with it.”

“I should have,” and there’s no way her voice could have even hitched, cold as it is, “I should’ve had the Dai Li bury you where you stood.” 

“So why didn’t you?” 

That seems to catch both of them by surprise; Zuko has thought about it, before, but never dwelled. It made him uncomfortable, because it didn’t make sense to him. 

Maybe it doesn’t make sense to Azula, either, who stands stone-still for a moment, like she’s been caught taking one of Mother’s necklaces from her vanity drawer—and the memory makes something in him ache, some buried part of him. 

“A lapse in judgment, I suppose,” she finally says, voice pitched light and airy. Uninterested, like it was during dinner with their father. He is struck by the fact that he can tell that it’s put on—that she’s trying. 

A heavy silence carries for a moment, for two. 

“Are you going to kill me now, then? You could probably do it. I’d fight, but you’d win.”

“Of course I’d win,” she snaps. And then, to his surprise, lets out an annoyed breath and turns sharply to sit next to him on the bed. He tenses up on instinct, and she rolls her eyes. “Lucky for you, I think Father should get the honor of doing it himself.”

“I won’t let our father kill me,” he scoffs. Azula, of all things, laughs. 

“It’s not like you could kill _him_. You couldn’t even look him in the eye when he almost burnt yours out.”

Anger sits heavy in his stomach, and he digs his fingernails into the palm of his hand to keep it down. 

“I’m not gonna kill him. It’s not—that’s not my job.”

Azula freezes next to him, and fuck, fuck it all, he’s given himself away. If its not his job, it’s obviously the Avatar’s. Shit, he thinks, his sister is going to kill him in his bedroom before he even gets the chance to leave. 

Instead of immediately shooting him full of lightning, Azula lets out a long, light sigh.

“You’re so stupid, Zuzu. That’s an awful plan.”

“I’ve come up with worse.”

Her fingers still in her lap—Azula has always been able to go exceptionally still, the calm before the storm; Zuko has always been prone to fidgeting. 

“Father’s going to kill the Avatar. And all of his little friends. If you leave, he’s going to kill you, too.”

Zuko’s breath stills in his lungs for a moment. Her words settle into the air there. He closes his eyes. “He’s going to try.”

Azula huffs something that could be a laugh, if they were different people talking about a different thing. “Ungrateful and arrogant. I don’t know why I covered for your ass.”

“You didn’t cover for me, you set me up to fail.”

“Same thing.”

“It’s not. It’s really not.” 

It almost feels normal, for a moment—as normal as things get around here. He thinks that probably nothing has been normal since Mom left. Maybe since Lu Ten. Maybe things have never been normal, all fucked up, twisted up. 

“If you leave, you’ll die. Father will send me after you again, and it won’t be to lock you up.”

“I know.” 

“And you’re still gonna leave.”

“I mean, you’ve always talked about wanting to be an only child—this is the perfect opportunity.”

“I suppose I’ll take it,” she concedes, so casually they might as well have been talking about the weather, or maybe a game of Pai Sho. She stands sharply, straightening out her robes with a dramatic flourish. She looks at him, stares him in the eye, and she doesn’t look angry. “At least try to make it a decent fight.”

For a moment, he has the strangest urge to say something that’ll make her stay a little longer, to reach out and grab, thinks about doing something as stupid and ridiculous as—he hasn’t hugged her since they were children. Never had any real desire to, since the time she set his hair on fire. 

Spirits, that was a long time ago. Spirits, how they’ve changed. There is something in his chest that almost feels like longing, almost feels like regret—which is fucking stupid, because his sister just told him that she’s going to kill him, just told him to make their apparent fight to the death interesting. 

He doesn’t trust his sister—can’t trust her. He doesn’t particularly like being around her. He still loves her, maybe. Probably. The same way he thinks he still loves his father, even though he’s going to go help the Avatar defeat (kill, his brain reminds him, kill) him. Because he’s always been weak that way. 

He does have a bit of a sense of self preservation, though, so he doesn’t do any of these things.

Instead, he crosses his arms and says, “Fuck off.”

Azula rolls her eyes, “Maybe the Avatar can finally teach you some manners—probably has some monk code he could tell you about.” A pause, and then she turns to leave. 

He thinks about saying goodbye, but can’t seem to find the words. The door swings shut behind her, and he sinks back into the bed. 

He stares up at the ceiling, feeling strangely empty. 

If he didn’t know better, he might’ve thought that his sister sounded sad. 

**Author's Note:**

> miss cuisine in the avatar world wiki page thank you for your service. also i know i keep revisiting the same plot points over and over idk what u want from me i have no plan these things just Happen
> 
> drop a comment to keep me sane. dk how im gonna find an apartment by august w/ everything shut down so pray for me there too. and Please come [talk to me](http://gaycinema.tumblr.com/) .....about anything........i havent seen anyone but my family in weeks i am losing my mind.


End file.
